


A Childhood In The TARDIS

by AllonsyJawn



Series: Sunday Tea [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, Camping, Childhood, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyJawn/pseuds/AllonsyJawn
Summary: This is going to be a collection of one shots about Sherlock and Mycroft's lives growing up with Rose and the Doctor. This fic syncs up with my other one, Sunday Tea, but they don't necessarily have to be read together. (Doomsday didn't happen, the Doctor has not regenerated past ten, Bad Wolf Energy keeps Rose young) Rose/Ten, possibly some Johnlock in later chapters.





	1. Putting Sherlock to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the companion fic to Sunday Tea. Most of the Chapters stand on their own unless marked. Warning: Chapter 5 is angsty and has to do with Sherlock as a young adult getting into the drug culture. The rest are just happy! Thank you :)

Rose yawned. She was not built for this. It was about three in the morning now, and on a normal night, she would have been in bed hours before.

Rose loved her boys, but being a human with two half- Time Lord children could be difficult at times. The boys didn't sleep or eat as much as she did. Usually the Doctor had her covered; when she needed some human time he would stay up with the boys, sometimes for days at a time. He only really slept a few nights out of the week anyway. Unfortunately, this meant when she was alone with her sons it was hard to adjust to their schedules.

They had decided when Mycroft was only eight that the boys needed a stable place to call home. The TARDIS was wonderful, but it wasn't exactly grounded. The boys never knew where they'd be when they walked through the door, and on nights when they were afraid or nervous about the dark or monsters they sometimes refused to go near the front doors. It was like showing your children that the boogeyman could in fact be in their closet any time it wanted, but it could only get them if they left the TARDIS. It wasn't healthy.

Of course it was a bit difficult for them to maintain both a steady home and a life on the TARDIS. The Doctor had offered to lock the box up for twenty years, to take some time off to be nothing but a family, but no one was happy with that idea. The boys were used to life as time travelers, and the idea of being stuck on one planet all the time bothered them even more than it did their father. They'd decided to have a place and attempt to be there as much as possible. They'd go see something extraordinary, then be back before bedtime. Well, usually. Well, once in a while.

The house itself was a special project, in some ways very old and in others quite new. The Doctor designed it himself, reinforcing it with metals from other worlds that would keep it standing for thousands of years, and then had it built for them in the fifteen hundreds on a huge plot of property they had purchased. No one was allowed on the land, but just to be sure he had put a perception filter on all ten acres. People driving nearby didn't even notice the heavily wooded area next to the road, let alone the little house nestled in the center of it. That house was guaranteed to be untouched and still standing no matter when in time they landed. Once they arrived they would flip the sign held on the front of the door from empty to occupied; that way they never had to worry about bumping into future or past versions of themselves. If it was occupied today, they'd just pop ahead a few weeks until it was empty.

Most of what they really needed was kept on the ship, but they decorated it with enough creature comforts to make it pass for a home. The only rooms with extensive decorating were the boys' rooms. Mycroft was thirteen now, and he had been redecorating recently. He hadn't painted over the trees, though. Mycroft loved the look of a forest, and the whole family had painted a mural of trees in his room.

Sherlock was six, and he was still happy to have his room decorated by his parents. Pirates were his favorite, so everything in his room had a nautical theme. There were no fake props in here, either; all of the decorations were souvenirs from their travels. The old helm hung on his wall had once been on a real pirate ship. The murals of waves were paintings they'd based on pictures from their trips to the time period.

The only thing the two boys' room had in common was the ceiling. The Doctor and Rose had painted them together before the family even moved in. Above each boy's bed was a ceiling full of the universe; thousands of stars in their correct places, planets that were visible from Earth, and some that were just out of sight. As Rose lay there in Sherlock's room at three in the morning the stars seemed to swirl in front of her tired eyes. He insisted on having the light on—he'd read a book in the TARDIS library about weeping angels, and ever since he had been insistent that he needed to have some kind of light around him at all time. She had tried to assure him that the dark was not that scary, but one bout with the Vashta Nerada later both he and Mycroft insisted on nightlights.

Rose understood why the Doctor had to be gone for the week, but it didn't make it easier. Jack needed help with a new program his team had confiscated from a crashed alien ship; usually not something the Doctor was interested in. However, supposedly the new program would make it impossible for any sort of violence to happen in the hub itself, making it a very safe place to store dangerous beings. Jack had offered the Doctor a good chunk of the sizeable budget Torchwood had at their disposal as payment to come help them install it and learn how to use it. It was for a good cause, and the money would help keep the boys' bellies full.

Her eyes closed slowly in the dim light, and for just a second she drifted away.

"That's wrong," Sherlock said suddenly, making her jump.

She rubbed her eyes. "What's wrong, Love?" she turned and looked at the little boy laying in the bed next to her. She was resting back on the bedspread, but Sherlock was nestled under the blankets, his gravity-defying black curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head. He was in his pajamas, he had a glass of water, and he'd been up to use the bathroom four times already. They'd been there for hours.

"That star," Sherlock said, pointing up at the ceiling. It's too far to the left."

"Oh. I bet I painted that one. We could fix it tomorrow."

"No, that's okay. I like it the way it is," he said with a small huff, fidgeting in his blankets.

"Okay, bedtime now."

Sherlock nodded, pushing his face into the pillows. He was quiet for a long minute, and Rose was hopeful that he had finally fallen asleep. He turned his face to her suddenly. "Mummy, I'm bored. I don't think it's a sleeping night."

"You've been awake for four days now, Sherlock. It's definitely a sleeping night. Mycroft is asleep in his room, it's your turn now."

"Will you leave if I fall asleep? I don't want you to go."

"I don't have to," she yawned. "I just want to sleep, I don't care where. I'll stay up until you're asleep though."

"Why? That doesn't make sense. You're sleepier than I am."

"I don't want to leave you alone. You need to get some rest."

"You think I'd get up and play, huh?" he asked, pulling his little stuffed hedgehog closer to his chest.

"Yep," she said, with a smile. She scooted a little closer and pulled him into a cuddle, petting back his wild hair. Sometimes it was easy for her to forget how young Sherlock really was. He did not speak like a six year old, and she had a nagging suspicion that he had passed her intelligence a year ago. The key was not letting him know that.

"Why do we sleep more than Daddy?" he asked.

"You know why," she said softly, trying to let her voice sound soothing. "Daddy is from a place where people don't sleep very much, and Mummy is from a place where people sleep every night. You fall somewhere in the middle."

He lay still next to her, and if he were any other child she would have thought he was drifting off. She knew better—she could feel the little ridges in his forehead that meant he was deep in thought. She tried to rub them away, but she knew it was just a matter of time before he asked another question.

Finally he sat up, his little nose wrinkled high on his face. She smirked. This little boy was absolutely beautiful, and he would grow to be a beautiful young man. His chubby cheeks had already receded slightly, and his eyes seemed to not be able to decide whether they wanted to be green or blue. She sighed, pushing him back onto the bed gently. "One more question, Sherlock, then you have to sleep."

"Mummy, am I going to die?"

She stared at him. "What, Baby?"

"I'm getting older. Mycroft too. You and Daddy never get older. The logical progression would mean that Mycroft and I are going to die."

She sat up, squeezing Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, you shouldn't think about things like that. You are not dying, Sweetheart."

"But isn't everybody?" he asked. "Everybody gets old and dies. Even daddy gets older, just really slowly. When you're born, you start to die."

Rose sighed, not exactly sure what to say. She brushed the hair back from his forehead. Sherlock was smart. She realized with a sinking feeling that this was not something he had just thought of tonight. She had to do this carefully, he would detect any lies or condescension. "Sherlock, how old do you think Mummy is?"

He scrunched up his face. "Younger than Daddy. Three hundred, maybe."

She smiled. "Not quite. I'm about fifty."

"That's it?" he asked innocently.

She would have tickled him if she didn't know it would wake him up more than he already was. "That's it. Now I want you to take a minute to think about all of the things I've told you I've done with my life. Think a second about all of the things I've seen, all the people I've met. Everything I've ever done I've done in fifty years."

"That doesn't seem long enough," Sherlock said after a pause.

"That's because time, believe it or not, doesn't really matter that much. It's not how long a life lasts that's important, it's what you do with it. Yes, people do get old. You will get old one day, a very, very long time from now, but when you do you'll have a whole life to look back on, and you'll be happy about that. You've seen more in six years than most people see in their whole lives. You're going to do great things, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do things have to change, though?" he asked, a bit more quietly. "Why can't things stay the same forever?"

"Things have to end. Otherwise new adventures would never begin. It's not something to be afraid of, it's something to look forward to."

"I shouldn't care about getting old, huh Mummy? 'Cause I'm only six?"

"That's right, Baby."

"Am I a freak, Mummy?"

She shook her head, settling back down and pulling him close to her. She pointed up at the ceiling to the mess of stars over their heads. "You know that star, there? The one that's just a bit different?"

"The one that's wrong?"

"It's not wrong. It's just a little different than the others. I asked if you wanted to paint over it. Do you? Do you want to fix it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I like it. The ceiling would look different if we fixed it.

"Exactly. It's a little bit different, but it's beautiful. That's our family. We're just one family in billions of others, but we're special in a beautiful way. We don't need to be fixed, we're just right."

She felt him smile and some of the tension left his little body. She wondered how long he'd held in this question, but knew he would be too embarrassed to talk about it. Sherlock yawned. "Mummy?"

"Yes, Love?"

"I'm tired. You can sleep in your room. I'll be okay," he muttered, his long eyelashes fluttering a bit.

She chuckled, sliding gently out of the bed. She could tell from the way he slumped across the ship-shaped bed that he was done for the night. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead and then crept silently to the door. As soon as she opened it an old brown dog scurried past her into the room.

She was about to grab him before he woke up Sherlock, but the dog just hopped onto the boy's bed and laid down next to his side. Sherlock's hand came up absently and rested on the animals head, his eyes still closed. "Night, Redbeard," he mumbled.

She closed the door quietly behind her, poking her head in to check on Mycroft for just a moment before she slipped into her own bedroom and settled into the covers of her inviting bed. She heard quiet footsteps down the hall and smiled, recognizing them instantly. Those were not little boy footsteps.

She kept her eyes closed as the door opened and closed, and then she felt the other side of the bed depress as warm arms wrapped around her from behind.

"Missed you," she whispered.

"Missed you," the Doctor whispered, settling into the pillows. "The boys asleep?"

"Only just now," she said. "Could have used you a few minutes ago."

"Sorry," he said, genuine regret in his voice. "Did Sherlock play twenty questions tonight?"

"More like fifty," she laughed softly. "If they knew you were home they'd both be up in a heartbeat."

"That's why I parked on the other side of the property. Didn't want to ruin your progress. I'll check on them later after you fall asleep."

"Won't be long," she murmured as he stroked her hair.

"Goodnight," he whispered into her hair. "Love you."

"Love you, she whispered back, finally giving in to the exhaustion she'd been fighting.

The Doctor did sleep that night; not for very long, but he slept. For one night, everyone in the family slept at the same time. It didn't happen often, but that was okay with them. They were strange, but it was a wonderful strange.


	2. Labels Can be Tricky

A/N: A very good question by jacks marie got me wondering about why they chose the names Mycroft and Sherlock, so here's a little ficlet to explain that. Enjoy!

Jackie Tyler grinned down at the squirming month old infant in her arms. The last time she'd seen her daughter, Rose had been very pregnant. The little family of three, Rose, the Doctor, and Mycroft, had turned up on her doorstep just yesterday for a visit. The visits were erratic at best, and sometimes not in the right order. They had all been hoping that she would able to see the new baby as soon as possible. So, as a surprise, they had returned only a day later, relative to her timeline at least.

"He's gorgeous," Jackie said, leaning back in her chair at the table in her flat. "Look at those eyes."

Rose nodded, but the little boy on her lap huffed. "What's wrong, Mike?"

"I don't like him," Mycroft grumbled, crossing his arm. "He makes too much noise."

"You were quite the crier too, you know," Rose said, smoothing out his hair. "Say, I think I hear Daddy calling for some help. Will you run to the TARDIS and help him find the camera?"

Mycroft nodded, hopping off of her lap and scurrying out of the kitchen.

Jackie smirked with a knowing look. "Little jealousy problem?"

Rose nodded with a sigh. "It's only been the last few weeks. He was thrilled about having a baby brother at first. I don't think he likes splitting the attention."

"Well, it's just something he'll have to get used to," his grandmother said, "now that we've got to pay some attention to…what was the name again?"

"Sherlock."

Jackie snorted.

"Hey," Rose frowned.

"Really, Rose? I thought the name Mycroft was bad. You're setting these boys up to be drama queens, you know that?"

"Mycroft means logical thinker and leader," Rose said a bit defensively. "He is both of those things. I stand behind my name choice. You can just call him Mike if you don't like it."

"And Sherlock?" she asked.

"It um…it means light hair."

Jackie stared at the dark tufts of hair on the infant.

Rose bit at the tip of her tongue. "I swear, Mum, the week he was born he had the lightest hair you'd ever seen, it looked just like mine. Sherlock was the perfect choice. Honesty, I think his hair changed color just to be difficult."

"You could change it. He's young enough not to notice."

"No… I kind of like it. It shows me not to try to label my boys. They're special, always changing, and they don't like to follow the boring rules. If I start calling him 'shorty' I bet he'll be seven foot tall one day out of spite."

"Mycroft and Sherlock Tyler," Jackie shook her head.

"Not exactly," Rose fidgeted.

Jackie frowned. "Don't tell me you're going with a boring last name like Smith? Oh, God, you're not calling them Mycroft and Sherlock Doctor are you? That's just cruel."

"No. Jack's been helping up with legal documents—technically the boys don't have last names yet. I'm going to let them pick one when they turn thirteen – something that really matters to them, something that reminds them of home."

Jackie rolled her eyes as the Doctor came bouncing in, holding a giggling Mycroft upside down in one arm and a camera in the other.

"Found it!" he cried, positioning himself behind Rose and Jackie. He set Mycroft ankles over his shoulder so that his face would be in the frame, then pulled Rose and her mother closer. Jackie lifted the infant so that you could see his wild, questioning eyes.

"Cheese!" the Doctor called, snapping the photo.

It was a cheap little picture taken on a roll of film that took years to develop, but thirty years later it was the only personal picture that Sherlock Holmes kept on the dresser in his room. Mycroft had one, hanging in the corner of his office, just out of the way enough to not make people ask questions. Jackie Tyler still kept one copy on her coffee table, displayed so that people would ask questions. In the halls of the TARDIS there hung one copy of the picture, enlarged as high as the old photo would allow.


	3. Part 1: John Watson: Babysitter

Say what you like about how careless the Doctor was about his own life—he was a very careful father to Mycroft and Sherlock. He'd lost children once before. In the horrible days of the Time War, his children and grandchildren had died, and there was nothing he could do but watch it happen. Now he had another chance; he had two boys just as intelligent and wonderful as his others. They would have loved their siblings.

It was this intense need to protect them that made the Doctor think of the idea in the first place. The boys were still young, Sherlock still in diapers, when it occurred to him that he was going to need a list. There were certain people throughout time and space whom the Doctor trusted completely. He knew that if he and Rose were in a bind, or their situation was too gruesome, or heaven forbid they died trying to save some planet or people, that he could absolutely trust these people with his sons.

He emptied out a small compartment under the TARDIS floor, then closed it, not going near it for several weeks. In fact, the family didn't travel at all for those weeks. The TARDIS sat alone in the yard, just out of sight. Rose kept asking him why they were living so linearly, but he told to wait just a bit longer. He wanted to be sure his plan would work before he explained it.

Each day as they lived in the house he made an internal oath to himself and his family, and that was this; that at the end of his life, however many centuries away that may be, he would write a list. On that list he would write the names and space-time coordinates of every person in the universe whom he could turn to with his children in an emergency. Finally, he would use the future version of the TARDIS to travel back to this specific week and find the old version of the TARDIS. He would place the list into the small, empty compartment, all while making no contact with his previous self or the past versions of his family.

After three weeks the Doctor returned to his TARDIS, and to his delight he found the list, penned by his future self, lying in the compartment. There were some names he recognized or course; Sarah Jane Smith, Jack Harkness, Jackie Tyler, The Brigadier, Barbara and Ian, and few other he knew would be capable and willing to help him in a pinch. Some names were of people he had met, but didn't necessarily trust yet. He wondered what great act former-Prime Minister Harriet Jones must have pulled to warrant her spot on the exclusive list.

Other names were entirely foreign to him. Vashtra and Jenny, Professor Song, Sam and Dean W, and something known only as 'the Ponds', to name a few. However, he had complete confidence in his future self. If he had decided (or rather, would one day decide) that these people could take care of the boys, then he believed it entirely.

It was about eight years since he had received the list, and it had come in handy a dozen times at least. Today was no exception. The Sontarans were on earth in the 3,765, and no one was safe. They had placed cars around the Earth—Atmos cars—and poison was pouring from the vehicles. There was still a chance to save everyone with minimal casualties, and he and Rose were grasping at that chance. They decided together at almost the same moment that this was not safe. If they failed for some reason, no one on Earth would survive.

The little family was at a UNIT base when they made the decision. Rose told him to go, get the boys somewhere safe, and then come back as fast as possible. He promised he would, and then scooped up the eight year old Sherlock and grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him along into the TARDIS.

"We don't have to go!" an indignant Mycroft argued as the Doctor pulled the list from its designated spot. "I'm fifteen, I can handle myself with a few Sontarans."

"Non-negotiable," the Doctor said. "Maybe in a year or so."

"I could help now."

"But your brother can't," the Doctor said, laying a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "He's too young, and I wouldn't send him somewhere on his own. I trust you to help look after him."

"You have people to trust," Mycroft insisted. "That's what the list is for. I know how to get into the Sontaran mainframe, Dad."

"So do I."

"But you'll be busy negotiating. Mum doesn't understand the software. I know the risks, and I'm old enough to make the choice."

The Doctor sighed, running a hand over his face. "God, your mother is going to kill us both."

Mycroft grinned, giving Sherlock a quick hug before running back out into UNIT to help a very resistant Rose.

"I'm going by myself?" Sherlock asked his father warily.

"Not for long, I promise," the Doctor said, searching frantically through the list.

"Can I go to Uncle Jack?"

The Doctor bit his lip. "You've stayed with Uncle Jack a lot lately, I'm afraid of crossing time streams."

He examined the list, trying to find someone at least fairly familiar. He squinted, seeing something small in parenthesis next to one of the unfamiliar names.

Dr. John H. Watson (especially for Sherlock)

The Doctor frowned. He hadn't meant to be so specific, but if he would one day choose to specify that this man was particularly good at watching Sherlock then there must have been a good reason. He set in the space time coordinates underneath the name as Sherlock peeked at the list.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked.

"New guy," the Doctor said as the TARDIS whirled to life.

Sherlock hopped into the bench, clicking on the seatbelt he always wore when the ship was in the vortex. "I don't like new people."

"I think you'll like this one," he said pulling the ship to a quick landing. "Stay right there, I'm going to make sure it's safe."  
\-------------------------------------------------------

John Watson had just walked back into the flat after work when he heard the sound of the TARDIS echoing through the rooms. He pulled off his jacket quickly, calling out for Sherlock. No one answered, and he remembered the detective saying something Lestrade calling for assistance before he went to work. The case had seemed too trivial this morning, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the severe lack of anything to do the last week had pushed Sherlock onto a relatively boring case.

He called his flat-mate's phone, but it went immediately to voicemail. "You're going to regret going out, Sherlock. Your parents are back already. Get home when you can."

John smiled, watching the little blue box materialize in front of him. It had been only a week since he'd first met Rose and the Doctor, but he was glad to see that they were safe. He found himself worrying about the couple since that first day—their chosen lot in life was dangerous work. He wondered how Sherlock could cope, never knowing if his parents were in a life or death situation. Actually, being Sherlock probably helped.

When the TARDIS was finally in the living room the door popped open and the Doctor stuck his head out. He smiled at John. "Hello there!"

"Hello," John said, stepping forward to grab the man's hand for a brief moment. "How've you been, Doctor?"

"Oh, good, you know who I am. That'll save us some time."

John furrowed his brow. "It's me, Doctor. John Watson. We met a week ago."

"Well," the Doctor said with a shrug, "you don't look terribly surprised to see a blue box appear in your living room, so I'm going to guess you've traveled with me before."

"Just the once," John said, still confused. "You don't remember."

"As you probably know then, the TARDIS is a time machine. Things don't always happen to me in the right order. You've met me, I but I have not yet met you. Understand?"

"I…I think so," he said. He'd tried to write all this down the week before, just to wrap his head around certain concepts, but it all seemed like some form of nonsensical madness.

"Good!" the Doctor said. "Sherlock!" he called into the TARDIS. "Come out here."

"Sherlock's in there?" John asked.

"Oh good! You know Sherlock too, that'll save even more time."

"Of course I know Sherlock, I'm his—"

"Ah, ah!" The Doctor said, covering his ears. "I try not to peek ahead at the boys' futures. We are trying to let them live their lives as linearly as possible. No spoilers. Don't tell me who you are, and don't tell him. All I know is that you're on my trustable list, it doesn't bother me if you're Sherlock's landlord, or plumber, or boyfriend."

John was about to protest when a small boy poked his head out of the TARDIS. He was about to ask who it was, but the words caught in his throat. He knew those eyes, that hair, that apprehensive glance around the apartment. He'd never seen the boy before in his life, but he knew exactly who he was.

"Sher…Sherlock?" he asked.

The boy nodded, looking at John with a suspicious glint in his eye. "Who are you?"

"I...Um, I'm John Watson. A friend of yours."

"He's lying, Dad," Sherlock said in a loud whisper. "I don't have friends."

John chuckled once. "Sure you do. We're friends. Or, we will be."

"Stay close to John, so what he says, don't set anything on fire," the Doctor said, patting Sherlock on the head as he hopped back into the TARDIS.

John stared at the boy for a second, and then the Doctor's words hit him. "I—Doctor wait! Where are you going?"

"Emergency, no time for explanations. Look after Sherlock for me, I trust you completely, apparently. I'll be back as soon as possible." He called. The box was already disappearing before he had a chance to answer.

He turned and looked at the little boy observing him, mouth hanging open a bit. He was not one to babysit often, if ever, and he had no idea what he was doing. He told himself to calm down—it was just Sherlock, after all. He knew this person, though he wasn't used to seeing him so young. He redialed the number on his phone again, holding it limply to his ear.

"Mate, get home, soon," he said.

The younger version of his flat mate tilted his little head to one side. "Your name is John?"

"Yeah."

"John, has anyone ever told you that you look like a hedgehog?"


	4. Part 2: John Watson: Babysitter

John tapped his foot, sitting quietly in his chair. Across from him sat a small boy with wild, dark curls and apprehensive eyes. They sat in awkward silence, but John could feel those changeling eyes rolling over him. How much could they deduce? Sure, as an adult Sherlock had been able to figure out everything about him with a glance. He had a feeling that was a learned skill, but how long had the man studied it before he became what he was today?

"Are you a doctor?" the boy asked suddenly.

John blinked at him. "Yes. I am."

"A real doctor, or a doctor like my Dad?"

"A real one," he smiled.

The boy nodded, pulling his legs up to his chest. He looked away from John shyly, clutching one of his pant-legs.

John raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Sherlock jumped. "Sorry? What?"

"You just figured out I was a doctor. Aren't you going to tell me how you deduced that?"

He eyed the man suspiciously. "You…you want to know? Really?"

"Sure," he nodded.

"You…you have a jacket by the door. It looks like it's your size. There's a little metal disc sticking down from the pocket. It's too big to be a watch, besides, the look of your computer over there means we're probably in the early 21st century. By that time most people just got their time from their phones. Balance of probability says it is probably the end of a stethoscope. Only doctors carry stethoscopes."

John smiled. It was an easy deduction, really, but not one he himself would have realized. "Amazing, as usual."

Sherlock tilted his head a bit in confusion, but he saw a ghost of a smile on the boy's face. Suddenly the quiet demeanor seemed to vanish from him. "Are you a scientist too, John?"

He frowned. "No."

"I like science," he said, looking around the room. "Everything is made of science, you know? Atoms are science, and everything in the whole wide universe is made of atoms."

"Um, yeah," he nodded. "It's interesting, but—"

"Are those beakers?" he asked suddenly, peering sheepishly into the kitchen.

John frowned, seeing the mess his flat mate had left on the table. "I suppose so."

"Can I…Can I go look at them?"

"Oh, uh, yeah of course—"

The boy jumped from the chair running into the kitchen and peering into the glass cylinders.

"Careful!" he called. "I don't know what's in those."

Sherlock was standing up on a chair, peering down at the assorted chemicals. Apparently the lack of respect for furniture was a longstanding trait. He picked up a set of charts, staring at them with a wide grin. "Oh, I get it!" he cried. "These are liquefied human eyeballs. You want to see how they settle in the jars, right?"

John winced. He couldn't exactly explain to the little boy that this was actually be his experiment one day. "Actually, the science stuff is not mine. It belongs to my roommate."

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking a bit disappointed. "Can I ask a question?"

John nodded.

Sherlock sat on the chair he'd been standing on. "Why did you lie to my Dad?"

"Lie about what?"

Sherlock looked away from him. "You said I was your friend. I don't have friends."

John wasn't sure what to do. "It's not a lie. Really. If anything, Sherlock, I think you're my best friend."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Prove it."

"Well," John stuttered a bit, "you like sugar in your tea. More than you should really."

"I'm eight, of course I like sugar. What else?"

"You like pirates," John said quickly, remembering something Rose had mentioned when he'd first met her. "Bees. I think you mentioned something about liking bees last week. You play the violin."

"No I don't."

"Would you like to?"

He nodded.

"Well, there you go, you're going to learn. Then there's the whole Mind-Palace thing. You store your memories in there so you can keep them all organized."

Sherlock stared at him in awe. "I just started building a Mind Palace last week. I haven't even told Mummy about it yet."

"You see? I'm your friend."

Sherlock grinned. He was about to say something when there a knock at the door. The boy gasped and dived underneath the kitchen table, hiding himself expertly. John felt a twinge of empathy—how often had this boy needed to hide to know how to do it so well? It was just as well, he didn't know how he would explain it to whoever was at the door.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. John rushed to the door, already making an excuse.

"Terribly sorry, we're ill today. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow—"

"Please, John," Mycroft said as he walked quickly into the room, shaking a bit of light rain from his umbrella. "Sherlock's never been sick a day in life. You should come up with a better excuse for him."

John blinked, trying not to let his gaze dart over to the table. Could Mycroft know? He wasn't sure of all of the rules. "Right." He said simply.

"Well, where is he?" Mycroft asked.

"Who?"

The man frowned. "My brother, of course."

"Um… Sherlock is…well—"

"I told him this morning that I'd be stopping by. He hasn't gone out on that boring Hofstede case, has he? It's painfully obvious that the husband did it. I suspect he just wanted to avoid me."

"Could be," John nodded. "Sorry to disappoint you. I can tell him to call you when he gets home, but I can't be sure he'll do it."

"Well," Mycroft said, crossing to the center of the room and leaning against the desk, "it's just as well, I suppose. I was looking for both of you."

"You were looking for me?" John asked, sitting at sofa. "Why?"

"I understand that we need to have a discussion."

"Is this one of those hush-hush national security threats? You could have just sent a text at this point, I get it."

Mycroft smirked. "This has nothing to do with the greater good of Britain, I'm afraid, but nonetheless it does have to do with security. Am I to understand that you met our parents last week?"

"Oh," John said, a bit surprised. "Yes. I've met them."

"I see," he nodded. "Tell me, while they were here, did they happen to discuss...home life? Vacations, perhaps?"

John nodded. "I know about the TARDIS, if that's what you're asking."

"How much do you know?" Mycroft asked.

There was the pattering of small feet, and then suddenly the young Sherlock was right in the middle of the living room, peering up at the middle-aged Mycroft. The man jumped, looking down in complete shock.

"I thought that was your voice," Sherlock said to his brother, hopping up to sit next to John on the sofa. "You got bald. And fat."

Mycroft stared at the boy, his mouth open slightly. "Sherlock? How old are you?"

"Eight," he said. "How old are you?"

Mycroft snorted. "Older. John, I assume this means you know quite a lot, yes?"

John nodded.

The other man tapped his fingers. "Well, then, I need to be certain you understand the gravity of the trust placed on you. There are organizations that would kill to get ahold of my parents and their ship. Since members of my family have decided to bring you into this confidence you need to be aware that the eyes watching you are going to be twice as vigilant as before. If you were to betray that confidence—"

"Are you John's friend too, Mycroft?" the boy asked, cutting him off midsentence.

Mycroft frowned. "I suppose."

"Do you know how he takes his tea, too?"

"No, I don't."

"Then you're not very good friends, are you?"

John snorted. Mycroft pursed his lips. "I suppose you're right."

Sherlock crossed his arms, leaning back into the cushions. "Then John is my friend, not yours! Don't yell at him!"

"I wasn't yelling, Sherlock—"

"You always sound like you're yelling. I get my very own friend, and you don't get to bully him. Only I get to bully him."

"Sherlock," he said in a stern voice, "what am I right now?"

"A bully," he mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest the way he'd done when he first got there. John smiled a bit realizing it was a defense mechanism. The boy liked to make himself as small as possible. No wonder the adult Sherlock curled up on the couch when he was sulking.

"I'm the adult right now. The adults are talking about a very serious matter."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

"You are a child."

"You and I both know that half-Time Lords age mentally very fast. I understand what you're talking about. You're telling John that he has to keep quiet about Mum and Dad, but that's obvious. He's smart, like us. He knows he shouldn't go telling people about aliens, they'd lock him up. You just like to scare people."

John fought against a smile. "He's right though, Mycroft. I wouldn't tell anyone. Your family is safe."

Mycroft sighed, crossing over and looking down at the small boy. For just a moment he saw something melt on the man's face, and Mycroft reached down to fix the boy's hair. "The Sontaran affair?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It was over very quickly, no one will get hurt. Father should be along in a few minutes. Don't be afraid."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't afraid," he said, too quietly to be true.

"Of course you weren't," My croft said, uncharacteristically soft as he headed toward the door. "Nice to see you, little brother, but it would be best if I am not here when Father returns to collect you. Timelines and all, you know. Very tricky subject. John, please tell the adult Sherlock to call me when he gets home. He may actually do it if he remembers this conversation."

Mycroft was out the door, but the damage had been done. The boy was staring at John. "What did he mean, 'tell me when I get home'?"

"Um," John said, trying to think quickly, "well, you know, we're friends. We visit each other a lot."

The boy frowned. Of course he knew it was a lie, this was Sherlock after all. "Where's your room, John?"

"Upstairs."

"So, that one," he asked pointing, "that's your flat-mate's room?"

"Yes."

The boy jumped off of the sofa racing towards the bedroom.

"Sherlock, wait!" John cried, running after him. He was far too late.

The little boy ran into the room, taking in the basic patterns of the walls and simple furniture buried under the mountain of papers and books. He seemed to be looking for something very specific.

"Come on, your Dad will be here any minute," John tried to remind him.

"Here it is!" the boy cried, holding up a little framed picture on the dresser. John looked at it in surprise, he had never even noticed the little photograph before. It was a modest portrait of Rose, the Doctor, and another, older woman that looked a lot like Rose. In the older woman's arms lay a small baby with black curls, and over the Doctor's shoulder he was holding a young boy, about the age little Sherlock was now.

"What's that?"

"It's our family photo," the boy beamed. "John…do I live here? Do I live here with you?"

"Well…yes, okay Sherlock? This is our flat. We live here together."

The boy clutched the picture, looking wildly around the room. He set it back on the dresser and ran out towards the kitchen, staring intently at the eyeballs in jars. "Are these mine, John?"

John nodded.

Sherlock jumped on the chair, obviously very pleased. The now familiar sound of the TARDIS filled the room.

"Oh no!" Sherlock cried, sinking into a pout on the chair as the little blue box appeared. As soon as the Doctor opened the door he was in front of it, shaking his head vigorously. "Dad, I'm not ready to leave! I want to stay here with John for a while! Please?"

The Doctor stared at him, a bit shocked. "Mum and Mycroft are waiting for us," he said finally. "Another day, I promise. Go buckle up."

Sherlock huffed, whirling around and giving John a tight hug. John hugged him back, albeit quite awkwardly, and the boy walked sluggishly into the TARDIS. "Bye, John! I'll see you again really soon. We're going to have fun when I'm big, right?"

"Absolutely," he called after him.

The Doctor stared at John in amazement. "Wow. Do you have any idea how fast he usually jumps in the TARDIS when I come to pick him up? He's doesn't like to be anywhere without Rose. Who are you?"

"What was the word you used earlier?" John asked. "Um, spoilers, right?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Oh, yes! Can't have that, can we? Thank you, John Watson."

They shook hands for a moment, and then he closed the TARDIS doors and began to disappear.

"Daddy?" John heard as the box became transparent. "Did you know Mycroft's going to be bald? Can I tell him?"

John heard the door open as the adult version of Sherlock walked into the flat to see the TARDIS fading away. "Oh," the detective said, "I've just missed my parent's then? I've only just got your messages."

John smiled at him. "Yeah. Nothing important. Just stopping by to say hello."

Sherlock was staring at him, something unreadable in his expression.

"You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said quickly, tossing his jacket onto the floor. With two long bounds of his legs he crossed the room and hugged John tightly, taking the older man completely by surprise.

John patted his back a bit awkwardly. After a long moment, Sherlock pulled away, looking just as surprised as John.

"Um, are you sure you're okay? What was that for?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes darting about in confusion. "I really have absolutely no idea. I'm just…glad to be home? Is that weird?"

"No," John said, patting him once on the shoulder. "You want to order in?"

"Sure," Sherlock said, going to fuss with his beakers at the kitchen table.

John smiled. Sherlock never did get to be a pirate like he wanted, but he had a feeling there were things more important to him. Sherlock had what he had wanted as a child, and he'd never have to go without it again.


	5. Ties That Bind

A/N: This one technically breaks my own rules, because Sherlock isn't necessarily a child. He is however pre-John Watson, and the flashback scene, I believe, qualifies it. Sherlock is around 25. I've been trying to write little ACITT fics but this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Let me know if you have any ideas for shorts in this fic! Thanks to everyone for the reviews and support. Enjoy!

The windows of the Mind Palace were closed. The curtains were drawn shut tight, and not an inch of light filtered into small room Sherlock had set himself inside. He could not see the doors, but he knew they were all locked. No historical figures wandered the walls, spouting off random facts about their lives and accomplishments. He was fairly certain he'd laid out a comprehensive report on the different types of tobacco ash in another room, but he couldn't remember which one.

Sherlock smiled. He loved not remembering.

For a long while after he woke up, he got to simply lie on the ground, not feeling anything. It was always like this when he sobered up. Slowly, more slowly than usual, he began to become aware of his body. Not this body, lying on a nice cool floor in his Mind Palace, but the 'real' one. The transport. It was the enemy that carried him around when he was stuck in the outside world. He refused to acknowledge that body just yet. This was a process, and it had to be done in order. There was a checklist.

Did he know who he was? Yes. Sherlock Tyler Holmes. Did he know where he was? Umm…he could get back to that one. How old was he? Twenty five. What had he taken? Heroin, definitely. Perhaps laced with opium, that usually his favorite type. How long? Well…

He frowned. He usually had a decent timeframe as to how long he'd lost during a blackout. Nothing was coming to him now. Where was he?

He tried to focus on the last thing he could remember. He was in the house on Darter Street, the abandoned one that people squatted in sometimes. His usual dealer stayed in the basement, and usually found a little spot in the upper levels to…well…consume what he had purchased.

Something was off though. He felt his transport sniff at the air around him. It didn't smell like the house on Darter Street. The scent was familiar, of course, but not right for where he had passed out. Had he been moved? Being abducted in some way was a danger here—he had known a few friends who had passed out and woken up in chains. He needed to figure out where he was, and he needed to do it quickly.

"Please!" a voice broke through the silent barrier around his palace so suddenly that it shook the imaginary walls, fading in and out. "Please, Sherlock….don't think that…why…Sherlock!"

"Alive," another voice broke through in the wake of the last. "I promise…he's alive…"

Sherlock was confused. Voices didn't usually make it through to his palace, and no one here knew his real name.

The calm room he was in melted around him, turning into another room entirely. Not a real room—this was just another part of his palace, a little memory tucked away. He blinked in surprise, this wasn't a memory he visited often.

It was his room. Not his room at the tiny flat he was renting right now, but his real room, the one from his childhood. He sat on his old bed, looking around at the nostalgic decorations. Of course it was a bit wrong—he had grown out of this pirate theme years before. This was his room, but as it was when he was a child. He shook, his head, trying to get his bearings. Why would his mind bring him here?

The door to the room opened, and a memory walked through. It was his mother, smiling, bright-faced, in an old Union-Jack tee-shirt he remembered from his childhood. She walked up to him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

"Hey Sweetheart," the memory said, running her free hand through his hair as though she were addressing a young child instead of a grown man. "Do you want to talk?"

"Talk about what?" he asked.

She gave him a look as she sat next to him on the bed, taking his hand. "About what happened today, Sherlock. Don't pretend you weren't afraid. It was a scary day. Everyone was afraid."

Sherlock wracked his brain, trying to figure out what she was talking about. "I remember this. When I was eight I was kidnapped. It was just for an hour or two, nothing terribly drastic. Father had me back in the TARDIS before supper."

"You were taken by a Dalek, Sherlock. It's okay to be afraid when you're in danger. I was afraid, Dad was afraid, even Mycroft was afraid."

"I wasn't. Statistically, Father usually wins against the Daleks. They didn't want to kill me, they wanted to use me as a bargaining chip, and I it. It was the equivalent of being yelled at for two hours by angry salt and pepper shakers. I told you that I didn't need to talk about it, but you bothered me about it for two days, convinced I need to talk about the experience."

"And you never did," she said simply, laying her hand against the side of his face. "I asked and asked but you never wanted to admit that you were upset. I could see it, the way you dropped your fork at dinner, the way you kept your room door open at night for four days, I saw it all. The night after you got home and you thought everyone was asleep, you looked into our room for five whole minutes just to make sure you weren't alone."

"Why am I even revisiting this?" Sherlock asked himself, looking around the room. "Seems a bit random."

"You still don't understand," she said softly. "Sherlock I've always tried to show you, but you just won't listen to me. When you hurt, when you're scared, you don't have to pretend. Don't hide, Sweetheart. You don't have to hide in here where the world can't see you. There will always be someone who loves you who will pull you out."

"I have no idea what you're talking about—"

Sherlock heard the slap before he felt it. A hand came across the side of his face, hard enough to whip his head to the side. It wasn't the memory of his mother, she was sitting calmly beside him. It didn't happen in the Mind Palace—that meant it had to be happening in the real world. Someone had slapped his real face.

A voice rang out around him again. "Sherlock! Sherlock!"

The hand slapped against the side of his face again, hard enough to shake his teeth, and with a sudden crash he felt the Mind Palace crumble around him. He took a sharp breath and opened his eyes, his real eyes, gasping for breath. At first everything was blurry, but he saw someone in front of him. His body was tied firmly to something with soft ties, and he was sitting in a char of some kind. He tugged at the binds as his vision swam. He blinked finally realizing who was in front of him.

"Rose?" he asked softly, staring at her raised hand.

"Doctor!" she screamed. "He's alive! Doctor he's awake!"

Sherlock looked around, quickly realizing where he was. "The TARDIS? How did I get into the TARDIS?"

Rose was crying. The lights around him were still slow and sluggish to his eyes, but he saw his mother now with perfect clarity. She placed a hand on his face, over the cheek she had just slapped. It was a comforting gesture, but her face was not as soft. She was glaring at him.

"How could you?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked.

"How could you?" she asked again, louder this time. She grabbed his arm, pulling it out in front of him and sliding up his sleeve, showing the small pinpricks on the inside of his elbow.

Sherlock sighed, turning his head from Rose. "Rose, I—"

"No, I don't think so," she spat at him. "If you're about to try to explain to me why I had to find my son in an abandoned house with a needle in his arm, you talk to me as your mother."

He sighed again, rubbing his face. "Mum, I'm sorry, this isn't a big deal—"

She raised her hand as though she was going to slap his face again, but stopped herself. "You were dead."

"What?"

The Doctor walked into the consul room, holding a small bundle in his arms. He wasn't angry, not the way Rose was, but his blank face and silence resonated in the room with a crushing gravity. The Doctor was never really quiet. He always had something to say, a fact to deliver, or a reassurance to share. Now, as he knelt in front of Sherlock and took a wet, sterile wipe to his son's arm, he said nothing. Sherlock couldn't look at him.

"You were dead," Rose said again. "The purity of what you dosed yourself with was more than 90 percent, Sherlock. You injected way too much. You overdosed and you died."

"I'm…I'm not…"

The Doctor held up a small device from his pocket, not looking up from his work. "Future tech. It can reanimate a recent victim, if administered in less than three minutes. We got there in two and a half."

Sherlock blinked. "How did you even know where I was?"

The Doctor dropped what he was working on, and the sudden gaze from his eyes to Sherlock's was too intense. The young man looked away.

"We've been looking for you," the Doctor said incredulously. "We've been trying to visit you for six months, Sherlock. Every time, every single time we tried to contact you, there was something else going on. Did you think no one was watching? Mycroft knows you've been visiting those…places. You've been missing from your flat for a week. We've walked through every drug den in London for days, trying to find you!"

He could hear the absolute frustration ringing in his words. Sherlock looked away from the Doctor, pulling once against the ties. "I'm awake. I'm not going to fall out of the chair. Can you untie me?"

The Doctor said nothing, but he and Rose shared a look. He took the medical wipe and balled it up, tossing it into a waste basket they had placed a few feet away.

Sherlock frowned. He suddenly realized that there were a few things around him that usually weren't. There was the trashcan, a few feet away. The chair he was tied to was not usually in the consul room, but when he wiggled he realized it was bolted to the floor. There were water bottles and fruit and blankets spread on the floor. "What's going on?"

Rose tapped the Doctor's arms and he nodded, kissing her once on the forehead. He sighed, looking at his son, and then placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't say anything, and he wasn't really looking at him, but the message was clear. He was angry, so angry, but there were only three people in the universe that were completely safe from the fury of the Last Time Lord, and Sherlock was one of them. The Doctor stepped out of the room, letting Rose have a minute alone with her son.

"Untie me, Mum," he said again.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Not this time."

He struggled once against the ties. "What? What are you talking about?"

"We knew you used. At least a few times before now, we knew you experimented with drugs, and we didn't do anything because we thought you were smart enough to realize how dangerous it was. It's my fault, I thought you were just trying to explore things, I thought it was a fluke. Baby, I never thought you'd get addicted."

"I'm not—"

"Don't," she said sternly. "You've been gone a week. How many times have you shot up this week, Sherlock?"

He rubbed the side of his head. "I don't…I don't know…"

"I know. I know, Sweetheart. This is partly my fault, so I'm going to fix it."

"Fix it?"

"You're staying, Sherlock. You're staying right there, in that chair, until it's all out of your system. Cold turkey." She held a hand over her mouth, her eyeliner rolling down a bit with her tears.

He stared at her incredulously. "You—you can't. That would literally kill me. The withdrawals are fatal—"

"Not with the Doctor's equipment. We can keep you alive without a single drop of heroin ever touching your system again. The withdrawal…it's going to hurt. Oh, God, Sherlock it's going to hurt. And I'm so sorry."

He struggled, trying to stand from the chair. "You can't do this!"

"I love you," she said simply, kissing him once on the forehead. She turned on her heel, walking away from him.

"Rose!" he called. "Rose, wait!"

She didn't turn around.

"Mummy!" he called.

She froze, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he cried out, still trying to get free.

"The detox has already been accelerated by the Doctor's machines. You should still be unconscious, but everything is in fast forward. That doesn't mean the withdrawal will be much faster, but you'll move through steps quicker. I can't…I can't be here when that happens."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll untie you," she said, not willing to look at him anymore. "I love you too much to do that." She walked away.

"Mum!" he called. "Mum! Doctor! Please! Don't do this!"

He could feel it now. He could feel sweat stinging his pores. He gasped, trying to breathe as his vision swam. "Mum! Mum! Dad!"

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, Rose stood only a room away. The Doctor held her, petting her hair. This would be the hardest few days they had ever spent on the TARDIS. They would not travel. The Doctor would never budge the box, and Rose would not ask him to. They would bring him his water, some food, a blanket when the sweating turned into shivering, but for the most part he was to be alone.

When it is over, the Doctor will offer to wipe it from his mind. He will decline.

Years later, sitting in his flat in Baker Street, he will remember that time and stare at John Watson as he sleeps in his chair in front of the fireplace. He will know that he will never be tied to that chair again. Someday, something entirely different will tether him into place and remind him to keep himself alive. Not all ties were binding.


	6. Mycroft's First Word

No room on a TARDIS could technically be called 'baby-proof'. It was an organically grown mess of wires and consciousness, used as a weapon, a vessel, and lately as a home. Still, the two new parents had tried their best to make a safe living area. The TARDIS had infinite rooms anyway, it was just a small matter of arranging a cozy little living room and kitchen together and placing them near the consul room.

"Come on, Mikey," The Doctor said gently, tapping the distracted infants leg to get his attention. The Doctor lay across the living room floor, his striped suit wrinkled horribly. He had his head propped up on his hand as he tried to make his young son look at him. "Mikey, hey. Mycroft, look at me."

"Don't mind me," Rose smiled from the kitchen. "I'm just making my own birthday cake, as usual."

"I made you a cake last year," he protested.

"I remember, I cleaned up afterward."

Mycroft briefly turned his head towards his mother's voice, but then resumed his examination of the small multicolored blocks in front of him. More specifically, he was testing to see if different colored blocks tasted differently, but of course his parents had no way of knowing that.

"We also went to the Diamond planet last year on your birthday," the Doctor reminded her. "Cooking just isn't my forte. Mycroft," the Doctor repeated, shaking his foot gently. "Look at Daddy."

The boy turned to see what he wanted. The man always seemed to want something, that's why Mycroft preferred the woman. She seemed to be happy with bringing him milk and letting him sleep, and anything else tended to distract him from important matters such as whether or not his legs had any use or if they were just for decoration.

"Say TARDIS, Mike. Come on."

"He's too young," Rose insisted for the tenth time that week. "He's only a month old, he can't talk."

"He also shouldn't be able to sit up on his own," the Doctor reminded her. There's never been a Human-Time Lord hybrid, we have no idea how far advanced he is. Our son is special."

"Said literally every parent ever," she teased.

"I swear he can understand us already," he said, attracting Mycroft's attention again. "Mycroft, I think you can understand me. Talking is what Mummy and I are doing. You use your mouth to say what you're thinking. I think you can do it already, just give it a try."

Mycroft turned away from him. As usual, the man made no sense.

"TARDIS, Mycroft."

"Why TARDIS?" Rose called. "Why not Daddy?"

"Daddy? Why make him say that?"

"To call you."

"He already gets both of us running anytime he cries, why would he bother to learn our names?"

"Try something easier then. TARDIS is a mouthful when your mouth's the size of a thimble."

The Doctor shrugged. "Fine, your way then. Mike, say 'Mummy'. Mu-mmy."

Mycroft didn't even glance up.

"I told you," Rose called from the kitchen. "He's too young."

The Doctor sighed, helping the baby stack a few blocks. Mycroft knocked them down and giggled in the way babies do when they think they've done something incredible. The Doctor smiled. "Fine, he's a bit too young. Just you wait though, it won't be long."

Rose came in to living room, flopping on the bowl with the batch of cake mix. "You're right, too. Who need's baking?" she dipped her finger into the bowl and ate a blob of the chocolate.

Mycroft turned around to watch his mother, staring at the bowl on her lap. Whatever it was, it smelled good, and he had never seen it before.

"You want some cake, Mikey?" Rose asked.

"Cake," the infant informed her politely, reaching at the bowl.

The Doctor stared at the boy. "Cake? Really, of all the words in every language…"

Rose just laughed at him, giving her son a taste of the sugary treat as the Doctor continued to grumble.


	7. Part 1: Camping

The morning was peaceful. Building their home so far from human civilization had certain perks, and one of them was the gentle way in which Rose got to wake up in the mornings. The Doctor and their boys hadn't slept the night before, so she had the bed entirely to herself. The air was cool and refreshing, and she could hear a bird singing somewhere in the distance. Everything was wonderful.

"Camping trip!" the Doctor screamed next to the bed.

She gasped, jumping out of her calm state. She yawned, rubbing at her face. "What?"

"Camping trip," he repeated again, as though that explained everything.

"What time is it?"

"Seven AM, exactly," he said. "You asked that I never try to pull you out of bed before seven unless it's an emergency.

"Yeah, thanks," she muttered sarcastically. She stared at his camouflage pants and bright orange shirt. "What are you wearing?"

"Camping gear. For the camping trip."

"What camping trip? Why do you keep saying that?"

"Ours. I've been planning it all night. I've bought everything and loaded it into the TARDIS. Tents, coolers, marshmallows, fish, everything we need."

"You bought fish."

"Humans have fish when they camp, I read a book."

"Most people go fishing."

He frowned. "Oh. We can do that too."

"Why now?" she asked, waking up a bit and stretching. "Why today, first thing in the morning?"

"It's only morning for you," he reminded her as he jogged backwards out of the room. "The boys and I have been making plans all night."

Rose shrugged, finding a warm outfit already laid out for her. One thing she'd come to be used to since running away with the Doctor was being ready to go somewhere on a moment's notice. He'd slowed down a bit once Mycroft was born, but she supposed that now that the boys were getting a little older things had been picking up a bit.

"Mum?" Sherlock asked from the doorway.

Rose turned around—then quickly covered her mouth so she wouldn't laugh. Sherlock stood in the doorway in thick camouflage pants and a ruffled shirt. His favorite trifold pirate hat he'd gotten for his sixth birthday hung off the side of his face slightly. He was small for his age, and as thin as he was you'd think he never ate.

"Morning, Sherlock," she said, careful not to let him think her smile was anything more than a greeting. He'd been insisting on dressing himself the last month or so, but for such a clever boy he had a child's sense of clothing. "Have you been helping Daddy with the trip?"

"Yes. Do pirates go camping?"

"Of course," she said quickly, trying to think quickly. She was getting quicker with these questions. Do pirates eat vegetables? Do pirates sleep with a stuffed animal? She had to think quickly or he'd outsmart her. "They have to camp when they bury their treasure."

He seemed to think that over for a moment. "Why wouldn't they just sleep on the ship?"

"Because digging takes a long time, and they can't leave the treasure on the shore overnight or someone could come by and take it."

He paused, then smiled. "Okay. Can Redbeard come?"

"Sure," she nodded, and he ran back down the hall, calling for his dog.

Breakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreak

"This is silly," Mycroft grumbled audibly when Rose and Sherlock came into the TARIS. He was laying on the floor of the consul room with a blanket wrapped around himself, pretending to be asleep. The Doctor stepped over him easily, setting up the TARDIS for the trip.

"Good morning, Mycroft," Rose smiled, ignoring his grumbles. Every thirteen year old decided that his parents were dumb and his life was boring, it didn't matter if his life was extraordinary and his father was a hyper-intelligent alien. They'd decided to just ride out this phase, he was usually polite about his grievances anyway.

Redbeard trotted over to older boy and started licking at his face. Mycroft was cocooned tightly in the blanket, and he started trying to wiggle away from the dog but couldn't get free. "Sherlock, call him off!"

"He's just excited," Sherlock said, trotting over to his seat and buckling himself in. "We're going to bury treasure."

"Where shall we camp?" Rose asked. "We could stay on Earth, maybe try another century with cowboys— or pirates, yes Sherlock. Mycroft, any preferences?"

"I prefer that we don't go camping. We have both a house and an entire dimension compressed into the space of a police box. It makes no sense to go sleep outside on the ground."

"I should have a cot somewhere," the Doctor assured him. "If you prefer you can sleep in the TARDIS tonight."

Mycroft huffed.

"Besides we already have a destination," the Doctor said offhandedly.

Rose raised her eyebrows. "A specific one? You're never specific."

The Doctor just nodded.

"And where would that be?"

"Nowhere special," he shrugged without turning to look at her. "Just a little forest planet I know of. It's warm all year, no mosquitoes, and it has plenty of open space."

She was distracted when Redbeard rushed past her, almost knocking her over on his way to jump on Sherlock's lap. The Doctor smiled. He doubted Rose would know what the planet Moira was famous for, but the boys might, and he didn't want them to accidently give it away.


	8. Part 2: Camping

The alien sun was rising in the sky as the family walked along a thin path. As the Doctor had promised, the planet Moira was basically one large forest. Rose had expected to land somewhere and set up camp on the spot, but to her surprise the Doctor had picked up the majority of the bags and began hiking straight from the TARDIS. She'd been a bit confused, but they trailed along after him.

"Shouldn't pirates camp on the beach?" Sherlock asked, huffing under the weight of his small sleeping bag. Redbeard carried Sherlock other small bag around his neck, and looked ridiculously proud of that fact. It freed his master up to ask his normal barrage of questions.

"Not always," Mycroft sighed, resigned to his fate. "Not when their following treasure maps."

"Do we have a treasure map?" he asked.

"Not this time, Sherlock," the Doctor called from the front of the line. "No maps of this place exist. Totally uninhabited, wildlife only."

"Then why is there a path?"

The Doctor pretended he hadn't heard him, but Rose stopped walking. "Wait, Sherlock's right. Why's there a path without people?"

The Doctor bit his lip a moment, trying to keep them walking. "Good job Sherlock, very good. I made the path. I've…been here before. Once or twice. A few times."

"When?" Rose insisted.

"Before. I don't know exactly when. A Tuesday. I've had a lot of those— let's keep going the clearing is not far off from here."

In less than a mile they arrived at a bare clearing on the ground. For about thirty feet all around there were no trees or grass or too many lumps. Right in the center of the circle was a small fire pit, obviously long since abandoned.

They set up two large tents and unpacked a few bags. As soon as they were done Mycroft pulled out a book. "Can I go and read now?"

The Doctor frowned. "We're camping, Mike. We have…camp things to do. Fishing, hiking, roasting things…camp!"

"We just hiked up here, and roasting is done at night."

"One hour," Rose announced. "We've done a lot of work, we can all have an hour to relax. Then everyone get back and we'll fish, okay?"

Sherlock didn't need another word of encouragement—he grabbed his small backpack and went running off toward the trees.

"Wait—Sherlock!" Rose cried. "Stop!"

He froze, turning on his heel. "What? I'm going to look for treasure."

"You're six years old. You can't go running into the forest by yourself. I'll come with you."

He groaned. "Mum, pirates don't take their mothers with them to look for treasure."

The Doctor took her hand gently. "You know, I picked this spot for a reason. It's a fairly small island, no big animals….plus he's got that watch we gave him for Christmas. You know, one button and the TARDIS locates him, just in case?"

Rose scoffed and crossed her arms, but finally sighed. "Fine, but you stay within earshot. If you can't hear me and Daddy, you stop right there and turn around. I want you to check back every ten minutes."

He wasn't paying attention, he'd already spun around and took off into the trees.

"Redbeard, go on," Rose called offhandedly. The dog jumped to his feet and went

chasing after Sherlock.

Breakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreak

Sherlock's small face was scrunched up in frustration. He'd brought a little garden trowel in his backpack, but no matter how many holes he dug he hadn't found any treasure yet. He wrestled with the soil beneath a giant tree, positive that he'd found the right spot this time.

"If I were a pirate," Sherlock announced to his dog, "I would want to bury my treasure under a huge tree like this. So, we'll probably have to dig deep under the roots."

The dog just panted and stared at him.

"I know Dad said that there were no people out here. Maybe he was wrong." His eyes went wide. "Maybe there were space pirates, Redbeard."

Redbeard turned suddenly whining about something in the distance. Sherlock frowned. Redbeard was a good guard dog, especially for a rambunctious boy who tended to get into trouble, but he never whined. If there were something dangerous back there he'd growl or pull Sherlock back towards camp, but he was doing neither.

The boy bit his lip, his curiosity overriding his obedience easily. He could still hear his mother talking to his father in the distance, so technically he wasn't in trouble. Besides, somebody might be in trouble. Dad wouldn't let him get grounded if he saved someone.

"Show me, Boy," Sherlock told him, hopping to his feet.

Redbeard turned deeper into the woods, trotting away from the camp. Sherlock followed him jogging to keep up with the dog. After a few minutes, he couldn't hear his parents anymore. He was just about to tell Redbeard they had to turn around, and then something came into view. He was very confused.

"The…the TARDIS can't be here," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "The TARDIS is parked up the hill on the other side of the clearing."

Redbeard didn't seem to care about the logic of it. The dog recognized his home and walked to the slightly open front door, trotting to lie down in the cool air.

Sherlock pushed open the door. Nothing looked right. Where there should be columns and gratings there were gleaming metal plates of orange and blue. He knew, theoretically, that the TARDIS desktop could change, but he'd never seen it done. He walked up the stairs, examining the new consul.

"Yes, yes, Amy, I understand that they're purple, but what shade of purple? Yes it matters. They have to match the blue ones," a voice said from the other side. The man walked around the consul, then suddenly caught sight of Sherlock. He froze, the phone still gripped in his hand.

The man was tall with dark brown hair. He wore a tweed jacket with a bow tie just above it, and he seemed to have misplaced his eyebrows. He stared down at the boy. "Amy…I'm going to call you back. Tell Rose…no on second thought don't tell her anything. I never called you."

He set the phone on the consul, then leaned down to Sherlock's height. "Sherlock…do you know who I am?"

The boy thought a moment. "This is the TARDIS, and there's only one of those. Mum told me once, about how Time Lords can change. Are you…are you Dad?"

The man smiled. "Yes. Do you want proof?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Here boy!" The Doctor called. "Come here Redbeard." The dog jumped up and trotted over to him, laying at his feet as he patted him. "There we go. Dogs always see right through regeneration."

Sherlock grimaced, touching the man's face experimentally. "I don't like it. Can you change back?"

"I'm afraid not, but don't worry. I'm from far in your future okay? When you go back to wherever you came from, I'll look normal again, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "What are you doing here? Did you come to camp with us?"

"Nope, that's against the rules of my time line. This is an accident actually. I'm planning…a vacation of sorts. This is one of my favorite planets for a getaway, I just didn't realize it was occupied right now. I'll have to make a note of it in my plans. Now, Sherlock, can you tell me what our number one family rule is?"

"Do whatever Dad says, even if it doesn't make any sense."

"Good boy. What I need you to do is not tell Mummy or the other me that I'm here. It's a secret, but it's a good secret, and Daddy's telling you to do it so it's not a lie, okay?"

"Okay. Why do you like this place so much?" Sherlock asked as the Doctor gently started to usher him to the door.

"I can't tell you just yet, but I think you'll find out tonight."

"Dad, how old am I when you come from?"

"You're all grown up, perfectly okay with me having a new face."

"How did you get a new face?"

"That…that's a secret too, Sherlock." They reached the door and the Doctor peered into the distance. "Mmm…that way. Go straight that way and you'll reach camp in no time. Send Redbeard ahead of you, he'll know where to go. Better hurry, if I remember right Mum's already looking for you."

"Okay Dad," Sherlock nodded as his dog bounded ahead of him to show the way. "I'll see you later!"

"Much later," the Doctor smiled, watching the boy's awkward legs trying to keep up with his dog. His mobile rang.

"Doctor, why does Miss Pond say you told her not to call me? We have things to do before next week." Rose grumbled as soon as he answered.

"I had a bit of an accident. Remember when we visited Moira when the boys were kids? I accidently crossed paths with Sherlock."

"Aww…" Rose sighed. "How old?"

"Six."

"What did he think of the new face?"

"Not a fan."

She chuckled. "So we'll remember to set their trip for another day. Will the nighttime surprise still happen?"

"Happens all season, we'll just put them a few days ahead of our old trip and they should be in the clear. I'll stick around until after they leave and clean up the campsite. The kids loved this trip. This'll be the perfect place for Sherlock's honeymoon."


	9. Part 3: Camping

Sherlock giggled a bit before he remembered that pirates don't giggle and quickly stopped. The worms squirmed around in his hand while the Doctor struggled with untangling the fishing lines. The day was beginning to wane—they'd spent a few hours splashing around in the other side of the lake. Mycroft sat on the bank next to them in a dark hoodie that was too hot for the humid climate, his line already in the water. Rose sat a few yards behind them in a chair in the shade, having elected not to squat in the mud again.

"Are there actually even fish on this planet?" he grumbled.

"Plenty," the Doctor nodded, "and they're edible too." He knelt down next to his youngest son and handed him the small pole. "Okay Sherlock, go ahead and cast it into the water."

Sherlock looked at the pole a moment in deep thought, and then tossed the whole thing into the water.

Mycroft snickered while the Doctor stared at the water. There was a snorting sound from Rose that quickly turned into an innocent cough. "Uh, okay, that's my fault," he said casually, wading into the lake and searching for the pole. "I should have asked you to just put the string in the water."

"Why?"

The Doctor shook the mud off the pole and set it in Sherlock's hands. "Do you know what fishing is, Sherlock?"

"Yes I do."

"Do you want me to tell you anyway?"

"Yes I do."

"We hold onto these sticks and we put the string part into the water…" he said as he helped the boy cast, "and the fish get caught on the strings, and we try to catch as many as we can."

"And now what?"

"We wait."

"How long?"

"Forever," Mycroft said in a deep voice. "You're trapped."

"No," the Doctor said quickly, pushing Mycroft's shoulder. "We just see if any fish bite, and then if they don't we'll go back to camp."

"Mum, do you want to fish?"

"Nope."

"Oh, come on," the Doctor smiled, waving an extra pole at her.

"Fish freak me out," she insisted.

Sherlock settled into the calm determination that would one day make him an excellent detective, but as a six year old that determination had a time limit of about twenty minutes. He was soon fidgeting anxiously, his shuffling bare feet knocking mud into the lake.

"You're scaring away the fish," Mycroft moaned.

"No I'm not," he muttered. "My pole's just harder to hold."

They were quiet again for a minute, then the Doctor looked back at him. "Wait, what do you mean harder to hold?"

"The water is pulling it harder."

"No, Sherlock, you have a fish!" the Doctor grinned, helping him pull the pole.

It was a small fish, a little wriggling blue things that had wide eyes on the side of its head, but Sherlock was ecstatic. "He's like Nemo!" he exclaimed, holding it up.

"It's too small for dinner," Mycroft muttered through a smile.

Sherlock frowned angrily. "He can eat if he wants to, Mycroft."

"I mean he's too small for all of us to eat for dinner."

His eyes widened in shock. "We're gonna' eat him?"

"That's why people fish, stupid."

Sherlock stared back and his eyes watered a bit, but Rose was over before he could say another word, "That's what some people do, but I think we can agree that Nemo is a special fish that will not be eaten right?" she said, trying not to actually touch the wiggling thing.

"Right," the Doctor said quickly, "no need for fish anyway I've brought plenty of dinner."

"Pirates eat fish," Mycroft grinned.

"They wouldn't eat Nemo," Sherlock insisted. "He's so blue he'd blend into the water and they couldn't catch him."

Mycroft sighed. "You're right," he said, giving into the logic of a child. "Nemo must be a special fish."

The Doctor looked up suddenly as the daylight began to gently fade. "What time is it? Doesn't matter. Well, it does, but our clocks are set on Earth time so that's not really helpful. Give me Nemo I'll put him in some water" he said as he grabbed a small duffel bag he'd brought with him.

"You're babbling," Rose said suspiciously. "You're up to something."

"Me?" he scoffed. "Never. Hardly ever. I mean if you take the amount of moments I have lived collectively and compare the amount of times I have been up to something it would only be…definitely less than half the time. Why are we talking about this? Everyone follow Dad. Come on."

Not even Mycroft complained this time—the Doctor was sometimes secretive with the boys, but never with Rose, and they all wanted to know what was happening. Redbeard awoke from his slumber by the bank and trotted along after them.

/

The large green field certainly didn't seem remarkable, but nonetheless when they stumbled upon it the Doctor clapped his hands together and sat the bag on the ground. "Give me a hand Mike," he called. "We have to hurry."

The boy helped his father reach into the bag and they started pulling out blankets, picnic baskets, chairs, and lanterns.

"Bigger on the inside," rose muttered.

Sherlock yawned. "Not really Mummy, it's an alternate dimension compressed by the form of a doorway, in this case a bag, that—"

She pulled some of his unruly hair out of his face. "I know, I know. Do you want to go to sleep soon?"

"I'm not tired," he yawned again.

"You've been up for days, silly."

"No sleeping just yet!" the Doctor said suddenly, swooping Sherlock up off the ground and carrying him to the spread out blankets. "Lots to do."

Rose eyed him suspiciously as she sat next to them all, leaning to grab a lantern.

"No, don't" he said. "Not yet."

"It's getting dark."

"I know."

They sat in silence nibbling on their dinner for a bit. Sherlock was the first to notice when it started, and he told them in a very matter of fact way.

"The ground is red."

Rose turned and found that, in fact, the grass around them seemed to be tinted a deep rouge. She turned quickly to the Doctor, afraid they should run, but he was grinning madly.

They were all frozen, watching as the grass turned redder and redder, when suddenly she realized it wasn't the grass at all. It was some sort of light emanating from between the blades.

All at once they rose—hundreds of thousands of little bugs rose out of the grass and pinpoints of red lights went zooming around the air. Sherlock stood up and chuckled wildly, trying to catch them, and even Mycroft was grinning as the little beings circled them.

"What are they?" Mycroft asked as Redbeard shrank back nervously next to him.

"Well, far in the future when this planet is "discovered" by archeologists they'll call them Parum Splendorem Insecta, which just means Little Shining Bugs in Latin. Not a very creative lot, archeologists. Most people just refer to them as the Moira bugs, after the planet, though no one's quite sure who named the planet anyway. Completely harmless, only interested in food and each other. You can see them anywhere on the planet, but the best spot is right here."

The light was as bright as if it were day, though the sun had set several minutes ago. Some of the bugs started to change, and now they were a deep purple. The boys, after checking for safety, were running through the field now trying to catch the bugs but never quite succeeding—they did move very fast. Rose scooted a bit closer to her husband and felt his hand gently take hers.

"So," she said quietly, "just how many times have you been here before?"

"Four or five hundred," he admitted, watching as the light illuminating her face turned to a sweet blue. "I used to come here when I was lonely—after I lost someone or didn't trust myself to be around humans. Haven't been here with this face yet of course," he smiled.

"Why didn't you tell me about this place?"

"Well, I was going to. It was going to be our Honeymoon spot, but I know you wanted some adventure. I figured we'd go some day as a surprise, but then we had the boys and I wanted them to be able to understand what they were seeing."

"It's like being inside a firework," she muttered.

"Ow, no, I'm never doing that again," the Doctor shivered. "It's about as pretty as you'd imagine but way too hot."

"I think it'd be the perfect place for a Honeymoon, too," Rose said biting her lip a bit. "What's say next week the boys stay with Grandma?"

The Doctor leaned over for a kiss, but just then Sherlock arrived gasping for breath at the edge of the blanket. "I caught one!" he said, holding out his closed hands.

"Wow," Rose smiled, peering into his hands. "Good job."

The lights all shifted again, but not in unison this time. The colors of the rainbow split around them, and all four sat on the blanket as the lights grew incredibly bright, and then began to dim. The bugs went higher than they had, and suddenly they were all a shimmering gold that started to fade.

"They're like stars!" Sherlock grinned as the Doctor swung him up to his shoulders.

"Let's leave the picnic stuff," the Doctor said, picking up the rest of the food. "We can have breakfast tomorrow morning."

"What're we doing now?" Sherlock yawned again, gripping the little bag of water with Nemo in it.

"Now it's bedtime," Rose said, trailing after them with a smiling Mycroft and some lighted lanterns.

"Nu-uh!" Sherlock insisted. "Mycroft said we have to tell ghost stories."

"Once upon a time, Weeping Angels are a thing. The end." Mycroft said.

"I've got one!" Sherlock said as he glanced conspiratorially down at the dog following closely at the family's heels. "Someday, in a distant scary world, Dad will wear a bowtie."


	10. The First Case

A small boy with black curls sat underneath a table holding a magnifying glass, inspecting a small gouge in the kitchen floor. He ran his finger over it and tried to focus very hard. The tile was broken in the middle, not on the side, so it was unlikely to be caused by normal wear and tear. The dining table above him hadn't been moved at at any time during his memory. There had to be an answer. He scrunched up his face and thought as hard as he could, then huffed in frustration.

"Mum, why is there a hole in this tile?" he called, giving up.

His mother pulled up the side of the tablecloth and smiled at him. "What are you doing under there?"

"I'm being a detective."

"A pirate detective?"

"No, a regular one. There's a hole in the tile but I can't figure out why and it's boring."

Rose crawled under the table and peered at the hole. "Huh, I've never noticed that one."

"Hole's don't just appear. Do you think it's a worm hole?"

"Probably not. How about you go ask Dad?"

"That's cheating."

"But it's not cheating to ask me?"

Sherlock twisted his mouth. Rose laughed; only recently Sherlock seemed to have realized it wasn't nice to tell his mother she was too stupid to be as much help as the other people in the house.

"I guess it'll just stay a mystery then," she shrugged, kissing him once on the forehead and wiggling out from under the table. Sherlock heard her messing about a bit by the fridge and went back to inspecting the spot.

"Sherlock!" she shouted suddenly. He jumped out, fists balled and ready for a fight if there was something dangerous around. Rose crossed her arms. "Where is my pie, Sherlock?"

"What pie?"

"The banana cream pie I made this morning. It's not in the fridge anymore."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "It's a mystery?"

"It's two hungry boys who ate your father's special surprise for tonight. I know banana cream is your favorite too, did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?"

"I didn't eat it," he protested, holding up his magnifying glass. "Ill figure out who did though."

Sherlock was out of the room before his mother could protest. Rose sighed and started pulling ingredients down from the cupboards to remake the pie.

Sherlock knew exactly where to look - a missing pie could only be one place. Mycroft, already sixteen, had been spending more and more of his time in his locked room. Sherlock tiptoed up to the door and laid down gently, peering under the crack.

"Go away, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "We can talk later, I have schoolwork."

"I know you did it," Sherlock called. "Just come tell Mum you ate her pie and we won't turn you into the police."

Mycroft sighed and opened the door. "What are you talking about, now?"

"Mum made a pie and you ate it and I deduced it, you thief."

"I didn't steal a pie," he started, but the young boy rushed past him into the room and dived into the trash can next to his desk.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Looking for evidence. The pie tin must be in here."

"I did not steal a pie! Dad!" Mycroft called out the door.

The Doctor strolled in a moment later and didn't even say anything, he just walked over and gently pulled Sherlock out of the trashcan and threw him over his shoulder. "Dad, I'm looking for a clue! The investigation isn't over," he protested.

"He keeps coming into my room," Mycroft complained.

"I know, I know," the Doctor sighed. Every day for a month the boys had been having the same argument. Mycroft wanted his privacy more than ever and his brother seemed incapable of letting him have it. "He just wanted to spend some time with you, it's a good thing."

"This time he says I stole a pie."

The Doctor lit up. "There's pie?"

"Not anymore 'cause Mycroft ate it."

Mycroft tried to protest but the Doctor just held his hand up. "I'll take care of it, Mike. How's the research on the TARDIS manual going?"

The teens face fell. "I don't understand hardly anything. I understand the dimensions we enter but-"

"Boooring," Sherlock moaned."

The Doctor fought a grin and clapped Mycroft on the back as he carried his younger son out towards the living room. He flipped him over and the boy landed on the couch and bounced a bit, which always made him giggle.

"I think we need to have a talk."

Sherlock groaned. "Must we?"

"You have to stop bothering your brother. It's okay to be with him during our family time, but he doesn't want to play as much anymore. Mike's getting older, he has his mind on other things."

"He has to have taken the pie, Dad. Mom didn't eat and I didn't eat it and you didn't know about it, so it had to be him."

"Maybe Redbeard got ahold of it."

"Banana cream makes him puke."

"Let's just drop it, okay? Why don't you come help me in the TARDIS? We can go swimming later if we can find the pool."

Sherlock crossed his arms and thought a moment. "There's a hole in the dining room floor."

"Oh, that's from-"

"No! Don't tell me, I want to figure it out. Can I use the Sonic Screwdriver to take a reading of it?"

"The Sonic's not a toy, we talked about this."

"I'm not playing, I'm investigating. I'll just take a scan real quick and bring it back so you can tell me what it says. Mum's in there, she can watch me."

The Doctor sighed and set the device carefully into Sherlock's hand. "Be careful. Just a quick scan. Do you remember how to do it?"

Sherlock nodded, jumping from the couch and racing to the kitchen.

When Rose was busy heating the oven, Sherlock slowly slipped out of the back door, Sonic Screwdriver in hand. The end of the device was coated in a yellow glob-part of the pie mix Rose had sitting on the counter. He knew he only had a few minutes to finish this mystery. For all he knew the Doctor was already looking for him.

Sherlock knew more about the device and how to use it than he father gave him credit for. More specifically, he knew if he could get a sample on the end of it then the device could guide him to more of the same sample. It was a feature the Doctor had installed only a few years before so that they always had clean water when traveling; just drop a bit of moisture onto the end and it would guide them to more.

He imagined the same would apply to banana cream.

He was almost certain that the device would give him concrete proof of Mycroft's guilt, but when he ran and held it up to his brother's door it didn't so much as beep once. Crushed, he stalked back into the kitchen. Just as he started to think that the Sonic could not track anything but liquid, he heard it beep only inches away from the back door.

Now he was creeping slowly through the dimming twilight, following the beeps as they grew louder and steadier. Something was out here. His heart started to beat faster as he approached the shed out behind their house. His feet slowed. He heard voices coming from the shed.

"Sherlock?" he heard his father call out the back door.

He strained to hear the voices behind the door.

"We can check it out tonight, but I'm telling you if there's a Shifter or something here it's well hidden…"

Trembling, Sherlock grabbed the door to the shed and swung it open.

Two men sat on the floor, on of them still chewing on the remnants of the banana cream pie. The froze when they saw Sherlock.

"Dad!" Sherlock screamed, backing up quickly and running toward the house.

Sam punched Dean in the shoulder as they shot up and grabbed their guns from the back wall. "I told you they'd notice it was missing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as ACITT has come, but I intend to finish it! Transferring all of these has reminded me how much I love these old ones. If you have any ideas for more one shots, please let me know!
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> AllonsyJawn


	11. The First Case: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I look for this part of the story to have one more chapter, possibly two, and then I'll move on to more one shots. As always I'd love any ideas anyone has for plots of young Sherlock and Mycroft. Thanks all!

As soon as Sherlock screamed, it took only seconds for Rose and Mycroft to make it outside. The boy was standing behind a very angry Doctor who had taken his screwdriver back and was holding his son out of harm’s way. The screwdriver was aimed at two men both holding shotguns trained on the small family.

“Drop your weapons. Now.” The Doctor ordered, dangerously calm.

“Not gonna’ happen,” the shorter man said. “You drop your...stick.”

“What are you? Burglars? Are you with Torchwood?”

“How about we ask the questions?” the man asked. “Like what are you?”

“I’m someone who doesn't like guns, even when their not pointed towards my family. I will not attack you, but if you do not get those guns away from my children in five seconds you’ll find out exactly how much I don’t like them.” This seemed to give the men pause, and their eyes darted to Sherlock and each other. Finally they nodded and set the guns on the ground. The Doctor lowered the screwdriver and nodded. “Who are you?”

The taller man reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask, then lobbed it at them gently. The Doctor took a step back, looking at it suspiciously. “That’s just water. Dump a little on your hand, and we’ll explain.”

The Doctor opened the flask and sniffed it, running his screwdriver over it once before pouring a little on the his hand. It rolled off harmlessly. The men seemed to relax a bit, but the shorter man nodded to Sherlock. “The kid too. It won’t hurt him.”

The Doctor gently poured a few drops of water on Sherlock’s hand, and Rose gasped behind them. “It really is water, Rose,” he called reassuringly over his shoulder.

“My name is Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam. We’re just trying to help. We’re not looking to hurt anyone.”

Mycroft scoffed, easing forward. “Right. Because helpful people lurk on other people’s property with guns.”

“We don’t know what you are,” Dean said, eying the Doctor suspiciously, “but we know you’re not human. We weren’t expecting a whole...nest? How many of you are there?”

Suddenly Rose was there, pushing in front of the Doctor, her arms crossed tightly. “What did you just call my family? Who the hell do you think you are? We’re not hurting anyone, what gives you the right to just barge up to our home?”

“Dean,” Sam tapped his arm, “she’s the other one. The one from the oil painting.”

Dean smirked. “Wow, Lady. You look good for five hundred.”

“Fifty-seven,” she replied with a glare, “but I do my best.”

Sam pulled a piece of leather from his pocket and held it up, flashing a badge. “We’re not lurking, by the way, just doing surveillance. We’re with the FBI.” The Doctor scoffed. “Well,” Sam continued, “a special division.”

“That’s a fake badge,” Sherlock accused with a scowl.

“What?” Sam asked a little nervously. “Why would you say that?”

“Because this is what a real one looks like,” the Doctor said, following his son’s lead as he held up a piece of paper.

“That piece of paper is blank,” a low voice said suddenly, between them. There was a tall man standing where he hadn’t been a moment ago, directly in front of the Winchesters. His long overcoat swayed slightly in the breeze as he fixed the Doctor with a confused stare.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean muttered, jumping slightly. “Where’ve you been?”

Castiel looked apologetically at him. “I’ve been trying to fly to you for an hour, but I keep finding myself in the wrong continent. There’s something wrong with this land, it’s like it’s warded against everything. I wanted to warn you,” he glanced toward the Doctor, “but it seems I’m too late.”

“Who are you?” The Doctor asked.

“My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”

The Doctor felt Sherlock’s small hand grab the back of his knee.

“There not demons, Cas,” Sam said pointing towards the flask still in the Doctor’s hand. “The Holy Water didn’t even phase them.”

“We had it wrong,” Castiel said, shaking his head, “this is my fault. I was looking through the pictures again and I saw it. This man has a TARDIS. They only come from one place, and it’s not hell. I seriously doubt he has any connection to the recent deaths.”

“They’re not human, they can’t be,” Dean argued. “She just admitted she’s over fifty. Does she look fifty to you?”

“I don’t know,” the angel admitted. “You all just look like souls to me. But all of their souls look...interesting.”

“Angels don’t exist,” the Doctor said slowly. Rose saw his expression and sighed. The ‘Oncoming Storm’ was definitely gone. Now he was just the Doctor again, confronted with the possibility of a new species he had never heard of. He eased forward, holding out a hand to Castiel. “I’m the Doctor, nice to meet you. What planet are you from? How many of you are there? How did you get here?”

Castiel frowned, letting him shake his hand. “Time Lords aren’t supposed to exist either, at least not anymore.” His eyes darted over to the rest of the small family. “I believe your child is… in distress.”

The Doctor looked back and saw Sherlock standing very still behind him. The boys eyes were red and tears were starting to pour from them. He was staring hard at the newcomer, a look of deep concentration on his face. The Doctor seemed to understand because he ran back to his son and got down to his eye level, whispering so quietly not even Rose or Mycroft could hear him.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Weeping Angels are all quantum locked and this man is not, so we are not in danger. I believe his species is separate from them, you can blink. Thank you for trying to keep us all safe.”

The boy nodded and closed his eyes immediately, rubbing at them.

The Doctor turned back to Castiel as he lifted Sherlock up into his arms. “Wait, you said recent deaths. What deaths?”

“Twelve people in the last four weeks have all been found dead within a ten mile radius of this place,” Sam answered. “The bodies were all…” he glanced at the children, “A little weird.”

“Weird how?” he asked.

Rose nudged her husband. “Not in front of the boys,” she warned him.

“Oh, right,” the Doctor nodded. “You had better all come inside, it’s getting darker out, it’ll be bedtime soon anyway.”

Sherlock watched the trio of strangers follow them as his father carried him back into the house. One thing he knew for sure, he definitely wasn’t going to let them put him to bed tonight. Not now that he’d finally found a real mystery. The game was on.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I will eventually finish the supernatural crossover, but this is not that. I am working on a lot of series right now, and I just wanted some one shots to get over some writer’s block. Besides, this clears up a plot hole I left in the chapter John Watson: Babysitter. A reminder on this one, the drinking age in the UK is 18 years old. I’ve never explicitly said where their house it, but I imagine it is somewhere in Great Britain. TRIGGER WARNING: Some allusions to underage canoodling.

Mycroft Holmes was not known around the University of Cambridge as a man who liked to party. It wasn’t that he was necessarily unsociable he was just...picky, or at least that was what he told himself. Despite their best efforts, his parents had not been great at teaching him how to deal with humans on a day to day basis. His education had covered how to dress in any century, how paradoxes worked, and many secrets of the universe that most people would die to learn, but it had not included how to actually make and keep friends. Most people the Doctor dropped in on knew him for only a short time and then they were gone forever, separated by years or millions of miles. Mycroft found himself doing the same; making a friend was easy, but keeping one long term? Nearly impossible. To be honest he prefered to be alone, so he never put much effort into changing the situation.

That was why he was so surprised when he was actually invited to a party with his schoolmates over the winter holidays. He’d been home for three days at that point, listening to his father talk all about the adventures he’d missed doing what he called ‘the boring normal human school stuff’. He’d pretended it was a normal occasion for him when Tom Milton rang him up over dinner and asked him to come on Friday if he had the chance. He liked to keep his parents in the dark about just how much time he spent on his own when he was out of the house. Mother would just worry about him, and the Doctor might want to run tests to see if it was a flaw in his biology that caused him to seek out less human contact than others.

That was how he found himself standing awkwardly among a group of people in warm Christmas sweaters who seemed to be enjoying themselves. Tom was happy to see him, but no one else seemed to recognize him or be too keen to meet him now. It was no wonder, he knew he was an imposing figure, standing there stiffly in his normal grey suit, looking for all purposes like the Grinch. He wondered just how long it was customary to stay.

The house was crowded and the smell of eggnog had faded away to the smell of warm beer by the time he figured it was safe to leave without seeming rude. He set down the mug of beer he’d been sipping on halfheartedly for the last few hours and went to find Tom to thank him again for thinking of him. He was passing the kitchen when he heard a familiar voice float out to him.

“You’ve got a...uh...what’s the word? I can’t remember the word. The fluffy things. Two of them.”

Mycroft frowned and pushed open the slatted door to find a small group of people all gathered around the bar. They all wore big smiles and most held their drinks loosely in their hands. Mycroft stalked forward and pushed his way through the crowd to find a tall youth sitting in the middle of them, his black curls in disarray and his cheeks a rosy red.

“Sherlock?” he gaped at him.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock beamed through glassy eyes. “Look, Mike’s here,” he said to no one in particular. “He’ll help me. Mike, what’s the fluffy things, run on four legs, have a tail. Not a Redbeard, the other one. Oh!” he gasped. “A cat! That’s it.” He pointed deftly at the young woman standing directly in front of him. “You have two cats, one grey and one white. The white one is very affectionate, but the grey one is sort of standoffish. Also, you’re left handed and your boyfriend is cheating on you.”

There was a cheer from the crowd (except from the girl in question who left the room in a huff) and someone passed Sherlock a mug of beer.  _ Another _ , mug of beer Mycroft realized, seeing the empty ones scattered around him.

“Hey, he is underage!” Mycroft shouted.

“Pssshhh,” Sherlock tutted drunkenly. “No, I’m not. I have an ID, see?” He held up blank paper that most of the partygoers read as proof of his age.

“You’ve got to see this guy,” a tipsy boy Mycroft vaguely recognized said to him, clapping him on the shoulder. “He’s amazing, he can tell you your whole life story and if he gets it right he gets another drink.”

“Me next!” a short blonde woman called out.

Sherlock squinted at her as if she was miles away, though she stood only feet from him. “Hmm. You’re a business major and sometimes you--”

“That’s enough,” Mycroft said sharply, grabbing his brother’s arm and tugging him off the stool. “I’m taking you home.”

“No!” Sherlock protested loudly, but he was too unsteady to stop the man from dragging him away. There was a general groan of disappointment from the group around him and Mycroft was very aware he probably wasn’t gaining any friends by stealing their main source of entertainment. He made a mental note to call Tom and apologize later.

“Mycroft, I’m eighteen, see?” he said, holding up the paper again.

Mycroft leaned in so that others would not hear him. “Sherlock, you know very well that psychic paper does not work on me. Besides, I  _ know _ you’re sixteen. We’re seven years apart.”

“Time is relative,” Sherlock muttered in annoyance as they made their way out into the freezing air. “Hey! It’s cold out here! Why did you make it cold?”

Mycroft ignored him while he tried to flag down a taxi. “How did you even get here? Did Mother give you money for a cab?”

Sherlock snorted. “Mum doesn’t need to know I’m here.” His eyes went wide. “You’re not going to tell them are you?”

“Did you sneak out? What the hell were you thinking!” Mycroft snapped at him. “It’s bad enough you followed me here, but drinking?”

“Ha!” Sherlock barked. “I didn’t follow you anywhere. Keith messaged me and told me there was a party tonight and gave me the address.  _ You _ followed _ me _ .”

“Who is Keith?”

“He’s cool, not like  _ you _ ,” Sherlock slurred. “Keith lets me come with him to parties and drink if I want to.”

“Wait, Keith _ Sumner _ ?” Mycroft said incredulously. “Sherlock, he is twenty-four years old! How did you even meet him?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, struggling again. “S’ none of your business. I wanna’ go back.”

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft said, keeping his firm grip on the boy’s wrist. “We’re going home in a taxi and you’re explaining to our parents just what you think you’re doing getting drunk with a university student.”

“Then I guess we’re just gonna’ leave the TARDIS, then,” Sherlock scoffed.

“The TARDIS?” Mycroft gasped. “You  _ stole _ the TARDIS?”

“The Doctor doesn’t own it, it’s already stolen,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sputtered and rubbed the bridge of his nose, waving off the taxi that had stopped for them. “Where is it?”

“I’ll only tell if you don’t get me in trouble,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Sherlock! Now! Where is the TARDIS?”

The boy vaguely pointed off to the left side of the street. Mycroft took his hand and pulled him along as they slid into an alley and found the old familiar police box. Mycroft pulled the key from the chain he always wore around his neck and opened it, pushing the boy inside.

“ _ I’m _ not even supposed to fly this alone,” Mycroft shouted, making his way to the console to set their course home. “You could have gotten yourself killed. Or worse, you could have  _ broken time itself _ . How could you be so stupid?”

“Because I’m stupid!” Sherlock snapped at him. “I’m a weird, stupid little freak. Why do none of you seem to  _ grasp  _ that? I’m too human to be smart like you and the Doctor, and too alien to be like other people.” He sank into the pilot seats, hands grabbing at his hair as he turned rapidly green. “I don’t feel so good.”

Mycroft felt his anger fade away as he watched the teen try to get a grip on his turning stomach. He’d been away at university for four years now, and he often found himself wondering what his little brother was doing to occupy his time. When they were younger Sherlock had always seemed to be on his heels, trying to spend as much with him as he could. Lately though...they’d been drifting apart. He sighed and brought the boy a bucket from below the console. 

“If you’re going to be sick, do it in this. It will take forever to clean the vomit out of this grating, and the Doctor would know immediately.”

Sherlock blinked up at him, and the man noticed with some shock that the boy’s eyes were red and wet. “You’re not gonna’ tell him?”

Mycroft sat down next to him. “You’re not...You know you’re not stupid, right Sherlock?”

“Oh, God. Are we going to talk about  _ feelings _ now?” the boy spat, his own teary eyes betraying him. 

Mycroft fidgeted. He was not good at this. He knew they should have a talk, he should try to assure the boy he was as normal as anyone else, better even, but he knew that Sherlock would pick up on any insincerity. After all, he was technically right. This was more than just the normal teen angst. Sherlock really was different, he really was alien, and trying to convince him that he was just overreacting was hard to do. He focused on what he knew he could back up. “You’re smart, Sherlock. Smarter than most people. Perhaps not as intelligent as me or the Doctor, but that still puts you incredibly above average. How did you know that woman had two cats?”

“You don’t care,” Sherlock muttered.

“I do. I’d like to know.”

Sherlock pointed weakly at his ankles. “She had hair on her socks. Long grey and short white. Way more white than grey, which means the grey one doesn’t rub against her as much. Smudge on her left outer palm means she’s left handed.”

Mycroft smirked. He himself had a talent for planning and numbers, but deducing had never been his strong suit. Sometimes Sherlock truly did amaze him with the observations he could come up with. “And how did you know her boyfriend was cheating on her?”

“Her boyfriend is Keith,” Sherlock slurred, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. “I snogged him in the broom cupboard hours ago.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said simply, staring at the floor a bit awkwardly. He’d never actually bothered to ask his brother what his gender preferences were. The older brother had never actually been interested in any romantic pairings at all, and had assumed the same would apply to the younger. When he glanced back at Sherlock he was surprised to find the teen on the verge of crying again.

“I want to go home,” he sobbed brokenly.

“Right,” Mycroft nodded, jumping up to check the coordinates. “We’ll get you into bed and hopefully you’ll sleep this off by morning.”

“Not there,” Sherlock groaned. “Not with Mum and the Doctor. I want to go home. To my flat. The one with the eyes dissolving in acid and the bullet holes in the wall.”

“You’re flat?” Mycroft asked frowning. “You moved out?”

“No. Not yet,” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “I will, though. I’m gonna’ have my own home. And he’ll be there, waiting for me.”

“Who?”

The boy looked at his brother like he’d grown a second head. “ _ John. _ John! Who else have I been waiting for for the last eight years! He told me he was going to find me but he still hasn’t.”

Mycroft vaguely remembered once hearing about Sherlock meeting someone from his future, but it had been so long he didn’t even remember what threat they’d sent him away from. He recalled the stuffed hedgehog Sherlock had named John and carried around with him for years, but he hadn’t know that had been the man’s name. “I didn’t realize you even remembered that,” he said truthfully.

Sherlock glared at him. “Remember it? That’s all I do. I sit, alone, and wonder when he’s going to get around to bothering to meet me!” he yelled this last part at the ceiling like he was shouting at the unknown man. “I was so dumb I didn’t even ask how old I was when we met. It could be tonight at that party  _ you _ made me leave, or it could be decades from now. I drag myself all around the country trying to find someone who doesn’t even know my name,” he said, wiping at his eyes.

“Sherlock,” the man began carefully, “you can’t live like this. You can’t constantly be looking for one human. For all you know this John person might not be in your life for very long at all, and then you would have spent all this time searching for someone who in the end doesn’t even matter--”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snapped. “You don’t know him. He’s kind, and he’s my best friend and if I should have been in that broom cupboard with anybody it should have been...He’s out there somewhere, waiting for me right now. Will you find him for me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “Do you know his last name?”

Sherlock shook his head sadly. “I think he said it, but I was eight. I can’t remember. I’ve asked the Doctor if he’d tell me but he just said something about ‘messing up the time stream’ and ‘living linearly’. I know John is a doctor.”

With a final pull on the zigzag plotter the TARDIS roared to life and settled itself right back in the metal shed they usually housed it in. After a quick peek to make sure the Doctor wasn’t standing right next to the shed with crossed arms like he’d half expected him to be, Mycroft let out a sigh of relief and called for Sherlock to follow him.

They crept quietly into the house, shutting the door so softly behind them they had to double check it had latched. Mycroft guided Sherlock through the halls, thanking whatever deities would listen that the Doctor had chosen tonight of all nights to actually sleep. He brought the boy into his bedroom, taking in the new deep-blue paint job. He wondered how long it had been since they ditched the pirate theme Sherlock been so fond of. Perhaps he had been neglecting his brother too much.

Sherlock fell into bed fully clothed as Mycroft set the bucket next to him. “I am going to tell mother you have the flu in the morning and have asked to not be disturbed. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover.”

“I don’t get hangovers,” Sherlock muttered into his pillows.

Mycroft scowled. “Just how many times have you done this?”

“As many as it takes,” the boy sighed, eyes heavy as he looked up at him. “Will you find him for me, Mike?”

“John is a very common name, Sherlock. Even if we narrow it down to just doctors, that’s probably still millions.”

“Please?” he asked. For once, his eyes looked clear, and his tone was sincere. There was no hidden agenda, no biting sarcasm, just his brother genuinely begging for his help.

Mycroft took a long moment to think. He could ask the Doctor for the last name, but it would alert him that Sherlock was still waiting and the boy seemed to want that to stay a secret. He could try to see the list of babysitters himself, but he was not supposed to look at it either. There were names on there he was not supposed to know yet and it could ruin his own time stream. Then, Mycroft made a decision. Years later, sitting alone in his office or lying in bed trying to sleep at night, he wondered if it was the right one. Perhaps if he hadn’t made it Sherlock would not have eventually gone off and wandered into the drug world, trying to fill a void in his life, of perhaps he would have thrown himself into it even worse out of desperation and ended up overdosing and dying. He just looked so miserable lying there, pining for someone he didn’t know, throwing himself into self destructive situations to try to find him. There was no way to tell if he had helped or hurt his brother in the long run, but in that moment he was sure his actions were justified.

“Sherlock,” he started carefully, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I promise I will keep an eye out for John for you. If you find one, I will check him out to make sure he is the right one. Eventually, the two of you will be together, and I will help to keep you both safe.”

Sherlock smiled at him. Mycroft moved his hand from his shoulder to the top of his head. The boy had enough time to shout out “No!” but it was too late.

Mycroft reached into Sherlock’s memories. He saw the face of the mysterious John he was searching for so desperately, and he erased it. He took the flat, he took the name, he took the entire experience from his brother’s mind and let it dissolve into nothingness. He pulled his hand away and Sherlock slumped into the mattress, completely unconscious.

**“I’ll keep my promise,” he said solemnly to his brother’s sleeping form. ‘ _Maybe now_ ,’ he thought, ‘ _maybe he can get a moment of peace_.’ He stepped out quietly, but did not go to his own room. He stalked quickly toward the front door and headed back towards the TARDIS. A certain man named Keith Sumner was about to learn why it was a bad idea to get his brother drunk and take advantage of him.  **


End file.
